


lay in the fire

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dubious Consent, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: It was always supposed to be Felix—but it is Sylvain who shows up.Or: Dimitri doesn’t like surprises.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 107





	lay in the fire

**Author's Note:**

> valentine’s dimivain fic? i don’t know her!!! (take some angst instead)

It was always supposed to be Felix.

Any one of them would have put money on it, when they were younger; it was Dimitri, and only Dimitri, who inspired that aggressive, overwhelming admiration in Felix. He was smaller, always smaller, but forever in Dimitri’s shadow, eyes bright and wide and cheeks growing more flushed with each passing year. There was _duty_ and then there was _love_ , and for Felix, those two had been warped together in the wild flames of Duscur.

It was always supposed to be Felix—but it is Sylvain who shows up.

Felix watches the cathedral during the day, restless and poised on a sword’s edge, but at night, Dimitri is free to wander, free to ghost about the Academy with only the baleful scrape of Areadbhar to warn them away. These days, he’s little more than a phantom, a harbinger of death—and more often than not, he confines himself to the cathedral, sleeping propped up and with his back against the back corner. He prefers shadow to light, the damp, dusty darkness of the cracked marble and five years of overgrowth. He nests, just enough, as an animal would, and once he is fully covered in his cloak—once the matted fur obscures all but his eye, his filthy hair—he settles in, and drifts.

It is Sylvain’s mistake for disturbing him.

He hadn’t seen Dimitri, at first. For all the weeks and months of prolonged, unpredictable violence—for all of Dimitri’s mad rambling, the stench of blood that follows him like miasma, a dark humor—there is a part of Sylvain, as there is in all of them, that still sees Dimitri at seventeen, bright and upbeat and so very naive. Sylvain blinks, and he sees Dimitri’s broken body, bruised and bloody, short hair matted with dirt and weeks of unrest; he sees the thrashing of his arms, the wailing of his open mouth. He can’t help Dimitri now, knows he can’t, but there’s a part of him that _needs_. He is plagued by _what if_ s and _if only_ s, wild fantasies that keep him up at night and leave him sweating through phantom pains and aches.

The very vision of Dimitri is a reminder of Sylvain’s failures, but even so, the _lack_ of him is worse.

So he had searched. Sylvain had searched—and he had found.

Dimitri had pinned him easily, bodily, with all the force of his crest and the hard, metal press of his gauntlets. He’d come upon Sylvain in a whisper, a warning sigh, and it had not been long before Sylvain had done the only thing he’d thought to do: He’d spread his legs, bared his neck, and begged for mercy.

 _Mercy_ feels so very much like violence.

It is only later, with Sylvain’s gloved hands grasping desperately at the broken pew in front of him—with his head bowed forward, his trousers pulled tight around his thighs, Dimitri’s gauntlet pressing sharp against his neck where he leashes him, collars him, controls his every movement—that Sylvain realizes that they are not alone.

The realization comes swiftly, sharply, a jagged, sideways thought that travels from Dimitri’s snarl of, “What would your friends think, if they saw you now? Lying with a _beast_ —” The words sound so much like Felix, so much like they’ve been torn straight from his twisted, judging mouth. The thought is overwhelming, all-consuming, a shame that scorches in his face, his ears, slithering down to coil dangerously in his gut. It’s a shame that sparks and surges into full flame with the punctuated, hot-slick slide of Dimitri’s cock between his burning thighs.

It is Dimitri’s voice against his ear, the rasp of his dry lips and his teeth against his cheek, that prickles Sylvain’s skin and forces his attention to the unlucky stumble of feet behind the far pillar.

It should be no one. It should be a mouse, a hare, an errant raccoon or fox or squirrel. It should be _nothing_ , the wind from the broken, gaping ceiling playing tricks on Sylvain’s addled mind.

It should be no one, but it is the slant of moonlight across the hilt of Felix’s sword that tells Sylvain otherwise.

Felix watches them, like that: hidden behind a pillar, amber eyes narrowed, knuckles clenched white around the studded hilt of his sword. He watches as Dimitri leans in and presses his full weight against Sylvain, drags his hand from the nape of Sylvain’s neck to the point of his chin, teases the swollen, bitten lips that open so easily, so beautifully for him. He watches as Sylvain takes two clawed fingers into his mouth, eyes half-lidded and barely lucid, clouded and nearly as animal as Dimitri’s grunts.

He watches, even as Dimitri’s face disappears in the shadow of Sylvain’s throat, even as the thrusting of his thick cock grows devastating. He watches, eager and angry and _jealous_ —Sylvain knows, he _knows_ —as Sylvain meets Dimitri thrust for thrust, his own cock hanging heavy between his legs.

It’s not until after Dimitri’s finished that Felix turns away. He turns, but does not leave—and while he doesn’t see it, the telltale cry that tears itself from Sylvain’s lips is enough to shame them both. Sylvain whimpers as he rides the fierce, unyielding wave of his orgasm, the sharp indent of Dimitri’s teeth at his neck simmering and bright. They share two breaths, three, before Dimitri slumps from behind him, the weight slipping from Sylvain and leaving him shaking and shivering and overwrought. The moonlight is cold where it touches him.

Felix leaves before Sylvain pulls up his trousers, the resounding echo of worn boots on marble made louder by the ringing in Sylvain’s ears.

There is no duty left to share.

**Author's Note:**

> @nishtabel


End file.
